THE BONNIE HOUSE O' AIRLY. Air-" The house of Airly." Ir fell on a day, and a bonnie summer day, The Duke o' Montrose has written to Argyle An' lead in his men, by the back of Dunkeld, The lady look'd o'er her window sae hie, And there she espied the great Argyle Come to plunder the bonnie house o' Airly. "Come down, come down, Lady Margaret," he says, "Come down and kiss me fairly, Or before the morning clear daylight, I'll no leave a standing stane in Airly." "I wadna kiss thee, great Argyle, I wadna kiss thee fairly; I wadna kiss thee, great Argyle, Gin you shouldna leave a standing stane in Airly." He has ta'en her by the middle sae sma', They sought it up, they sought it down, And found it in the bonnie balm-tree That shines on the bowling-green o' Airly. He has ta'en her by the left shoulder, And, oh, but she grat sairly, Till he plunder'd the bonnie house o' Airly. "Oh, it's I hae seven braw sons," she says, I wad gie them a' to Charlie. But gin my good lord had been at hame, There durst na a Campbell in a' the west Hae plunder'd the bonnie house o' Airly." This song was recovered from oral tradition, and first printed towards the close of the last century. It narrates an episode of the civil wars of the Covenant, and the destruction of the castle of Airly, in Forfarshire, the seat of the Ogilvies, Earls of Airly, by the Earl of Argyle. BANNOCKS O' BARLEY. From "Johnson's Musical Museum." BANNOCKS O' bear-meal, bannocks o' barley, Here's to the Highlandman's bannocks o' barley! Wha in his wae days were loyal to Charlie ? QUEEN MARY'S LAMENT. BURNS. Now Nature hangs her mantle green And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out ower the grassy lea. Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies, But nocht can glad the weary wicht That fast in durance lies. Now blooms the lily by the bank, Now laverocks wake the merry morn The merle in his noontide bower The mavis mild, wi' mony a note, The meanest hind in fair Scotland But as for thee, thou false woman, My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword That through thy soul shall gae. The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee, Nor the balm that draps on wounds of woe From woman's pitying ee. My son, my son, may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine; And may those pleasures gild thy reign That ne'er would blink on mine! God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Oh, soon to me may summer sun And in the narrow house o' death And the next flowers that deck the spring LORD GREGORY. BURNS. Oн, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, An exile frae her father's ha', At least some pity on me shaw, If love it mayna be. Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, By bonnie Irwine side, Where first I own'd that virgin-love I lang, lang had denied? How aften didst thou pledge and vow Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, Ye mustering thunders from above, But spare and pardon my fause love BESSY AND HER SPINNING-WHEEL. BURNS. Air-" The bottom of the punch-bowl." Он, leeze me on my spinning-wheel! On ilka hand the burnies trot, And little fishes caller rest; The sun blinks kindly in the biel' On lofty aiks the cushats wail, |